


Nothing to Lose

by unconscious



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unconscious/pseuds/unconscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacific Rim AU where Harry and Niall are co-pilots, Liam and Louis are Kaiju scientists, Zayn sells Kaiju parts on the black market, and Paul runs the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing to Lose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forochel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/gifts).



> I fridged Gemma. I accept responsibility for the things I have done. Title (and theme song) is [Spoon - Got Nuffin.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4Q9zngV52U)

The whole exercise is a bit ridiculous. It’s more spectacle than anything-- showing a group of rowdy young pilots and techs what drift compatibility is supposed to look like. But sparring in front of a crowd still makes Harry nervous, and thrilled. The room is cool and airy, but buzzing with quiet energy as the spectators shift their weight from foot to foot and murmur to each other. Harry’s dressed simply for the fight, barefoot and dark, loose pants, and a white tank that clings to the sweat pooling at the small of his back. He’s tied his hair back with a shred of cloth, a new look that makes Paul roll his eyes.

“Yeah, Hazza!” Louis calls from somewhere in the crowd, in the same shrill voice that comes out when he’s particularly excited over a new kaiju specimen. “Kick his --mpfh--” Harry assumes the rest of the sentence was muffled by Liam’s hand clasping over his mouth.

Paul, marshal of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps and Harry’s boss, has his hand on a young man’s shoulder, a young man Harry’s never seen before.

His opponent doesn’t look like anything exceptional. He’s got a shock of bleach-blond hair, a narrow, muscular build, ruddy cheeks and a nervous but unfaltering grin. He doesn’t look too different from Harry’s past opponents.

Ashton was easy to beat, slow-moving and ungraceful. Lou was a bit more challenging because she was so quick, but she was reckless and left wide openings. Nick couldn’t take it seriously and spent most of the match pinned down, laughing maniacally at Harry’s “serious-fight-face.”

Drift compatibility is hard. He continues to humor Paul, sparring people when told, and he grudgingly does his best. He tries not to think about his time in the drift. He tries not to think about Gemma, the raw terror of falling that sank into his bones and lives there still, the sudden disconnect, the nothingness. A new co-pilot would risk that emptiness again, risk re-opening the gashes he’s just recently stapled shut.

“Harry, Niall,” Paul says, and nudges Niall forward. “Niall, Harry.” Niall steps onto the mat and nods at Harry.

Harry nods back. Niall’s already settling into an easy, wide stance, his hands hovering near his chin in loose fists. Harry matches it. Niall’s still grinning. Both of their hands are taped securely, because Harry doesn’t like to fight with bamboo sticks like the other pilots. He likes to grapple. In light of everything, Paul concedes him that.

“Go on, then,” Paul says, and them room goes still.

Niall steps forward without hesitation, pushing his left hand out, testing the waters. Harry sidesteps it easily and keeps his hands low, offering his chin as an easy target.

Niall takes the bait. He lunges forward, a quick step and two quicker punches, his left and then his right follows it. Harry slips left, avoiding the punches and drops low, aiming a punch at Niall’s ribs. And Niall slips that like it’s nothing, aims a kick at Harry’s chest and nails him.

With a sharp inhale, Harry goes sprawling backwards. People don’t usually land hits like that.

Niall’s on him immediately, aiming to get an arm around his neck in a tight hold, but Harry’s quick and he flips them, locking one of Niall’s arms between his own-- but Niall lands a hook on the side of his head and it’s enough to shake Harry’s grip and they split apart, shoving themselves back to their feet on opposite edges of the mat.

Niall’s breathing hard now, his skin flushed and sweat dripping from his temples. He’s still grinning, but he doesn’t like maniacal, or nervous. He looks like he’s having fun.

So when Harry aims a high kick at Niall’s head, he’s not surprised when Niall catches his foot and laughs, a whoop of a sound that echoes through the room, causing the crowd to titter along with him. “Come on mate, that’s really predictable.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, breathless, and they’re chatting during a spar, unbelievable. Harry drops his weight backwards and Niall’s grip, and sudden loss of that grip, sends him stumbling forward, and Harry aims a low kick at his ankles but Niall dodges, somehow, and the crowd gasps collectively.

They continue like that for a few minutes, a dance of kicks and punches dodged, circling each other, Harry starting to grin as well. Harry lands one good punch-- a short, quick punch to the liver that sends Niall to the ground with a grunt and a grumbled “ah, bloody hell” but he takes Harry down with him.

“That’s enough,” Paul says, and they stop immediately. Niall hops to his feet and holds out his hand to help Harry up. He’s still smiling. His hand is warm and callused.

“That was fun,” Niall says quietly.

“How’d that feel?” Paul asks, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Um,” Harry says, and he’s sputtering because his mind is still in sparring mode, that deep instinctive animal place, and next to him Niall’s breathing heavily and sweating and smelling like sweat and strength and familiarity. “Fun. It was fun.”

*

They bunk together, on Paul’s orders. Paul also instructed they stay quiet, so with each riotous cackle that echoes down the hall, Harry expects one of Paul’s lackeys to bust in.and give them a disinterested but stern look.

“Honestly,” Niall says conspiratorially as he pours Irish whiskey into Harry’s teacup, “I didn’t want to come out here. They sent me a letter at home, naming the flight and time of departure and all that-- and I was planning on just not showing up.”

They’re sitting on the edges of their beds, and the room is so small that their knees knock together. “For shame,” Harry says, grinning over the rim of his cup. The whiskey burns all the way down.

“But then my da found the letter. He said,” Niall raises his teacup and lowers his voice, thickening his Irish accent even more, “Son, if they sent ya this letter, they they think you’re the man for the job. Now pack your damn bags and make Ireland proud.”

“Doing well so far, then?”

“Think so, meself,” Niall says with a shrug. “Are you what they brought me out here for, then? Couldn’t get anyone to drift with ya? You a good enough pilot that they’re scouring the world on your behalf?”

Harry mirrors Niall’s shrug. “I dunno,” he admits. “I’ve been, uh, retired for a few years. And I guess they need every good pilot back on.”

“Seems it,” Niall says. They pause, both peering at their teacups, and Harry knows they’re both considering the new, stronger, more frequent Kaiju attacks. “I haven't been able to drift with anyone since my brother passed,” Niall continues after a moment. He takes another sip of whiskey and clarifies, “We were co-pilots.”

Niall shares openly, easily. His grief is apparent in the twist of his mouth, and the slump of his shoulders, but is pain wasn’t raw and bubbling, festering below the surface like Harry’s. “Oh,” Harry says. “Were you-- were you drifting? When it happened? I mean-- sorry. You don’t have to answer that, obviously, I shouldn’t pry--”

“No, no,” Niall says, shushing Harry with a wave of his hand. “S’fine. Nah, we weren’t drifting. It was a construction accident. He worked out at a wall site since the pilot pay is rubbish. Why do you ask?” Niall looks at Harry, narrows his eyes, and then widens them. “Wait-- you’re not--”

Harry grips his teacup in one hand, and with the other he combs his fingers through his hair and tugs once, grounding himself, preparing. And he nods. He knew it’d come out eventually. Yes, he’s that Harry, Harry Styles, co-pilot of Flower Crown with his sister Gemma Styles, the two young prodigies, the reckless, courageous team from Holmes Chapel. They were invincible, the whole world agreed, until they weren’t. It was the largest Kaiju ever recorded -- until the next one. Flower Crown was retired. Harry had a few months of government-sponsored therapy. Gemma was gone. And three years rolled by.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Styles. Flower Crown.”

“Jesus.” Niall uncaps the whiskey and adds more to his own cup. 

“I thought, you know,” Harry adds, “Maybe that was why they thought we’d be compatible.”

“Could be,” Niall says. “Flower Crown’s out, right?”

“Too busted in the fight to be worth fixing.”

“Guess that’s why they shipped in mine,” Niall says. “You’ll like her.” He stands up. “You wanna sneak into the bay and take a look?”

They shouldn’t, of course, but the whiskey is good and Niall is grinning, and when they get into the bay Niall’s Mark-2 Crazy Mofo is stood in the middle of the room like a sentinel awaiting repair. It’s a monstrous jaeger, tank-like, and it has a fading Irish flag painted on the breastplate. So Harry says, “Where’d you say you were from again?” and Niall laughs so hard he has to put his hand on Harry’s shoulder like he may collapse otherwise. He has a firm, unflinching touch.

*

“Should be fine,” Liam says, leaning back in his chair. Harry turns away, peering at a sample of a Kaiju brain floating in a jar. The K-Science lab is dark and quiet without Louis flitting about.

“I don’t know.” Harry taps the jar. Nothing happens. “I haven’t drifted since Gem.”

“Dont tap the jars,” Liam says automatically. “If Paul thinks you’re compatible, you probably are. You know he has an eye for that stuff. It’ll be fine.”

“What’s it like drifting with a stranger?”

Liam shrugs. “I just helped build the thing, I never drifted.”

“Why not?”

“Not a pilot,” Liam says simply. “Plus, who would I be compatible with? Don’t say Louis.”

Harry glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “This brain one of Malik’s?”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Awful, innit? Louis is the city following leads now. I don’t know if Paul got Malik a better contract or what, but we’re doing way more business these days. Can’t even keep up with the new specimens. They’re on a first-name basis now, Louis and Zayn Malik. They’re probably compatible. Probably in a basement full of kaiju parts with a hookah and a mahjong set right now.”

“Hm,” Harry says. The brain continues to float idly in the jar.

Liam turns back to his computer. “I know you’re nervous.”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

“Look,” Liam says. “I helped Paul screen candidates, and when I met Niall I knew he’d be compatible with you. It’s gonna be different from drifting with Gem, sure, because there will be a lot more unknown memory to navigate in the headspace. Think you can keep from chasing rabbits?”

“I hope so,” Harry says.

“You can,” Liam says. “Niall’s on right hemisphere, that’s why we brought in his jaegar. Thought that’d be best for both.”

Niall would be leading, then. Not by much-- the left-right distinction was not that sharp-- but Harry would be able to give support, the same way he did for Gem.

“When’re you drifting, then?” Liam says, more to his computer than Harry.

“About twenty minutes,” Harry says.

Liam whips around in his chair. “Twenty minutes?! What are you doing, hiding? Let’s go, I’m coming with you.”

*

The ritual of the drift is unexpectedly soothing, even in the testing facility. The computers hum, the techs murmur, Paul stands with his arms crossed over his chest. The Drivesuit snaps into place around his limbs, simultaneously weightless and overpowering, followed by the coolness and the weight of the Pons helmet sliding against his forehead. It feels -- normal, almost, more normal that Harry’s felt in years, and he supposes that’s why he’s a pilot, and not Liam. It feels like returning from an out-of-body experience. It feels like he will look to his right and see his own grin on Gemma’s face behind the helmet glass. So he doesn’t look.

“Initiating neural handshake,” one of the techs says.

Harry closes his eyes.

It starts with a tug at the top of his spine, always has. Slipping into the drift is different for everyone, but it’s always been a physical sensation for Harry, like his consciousness is flowing out of his brainstem to find its partner. Until now, that partner has been someone he knew inside and out, and now, the usually peaceful sensation is tinged with fear.

But Niall-- Niall is light. He’s nervous, sure, but it’s not the frightened, bone-cutting nerves like Harry’s. It’s anticipatory, eager, and it eats away at Harry’s fear. His limbs loosen, his shoulders release tension. 

“Wow,” Niall hoots, and looks over at Harry. Harry turns automatically to meet his eyes. “S’been awhile! I forgot that it’s fun!”

Harry grins, and he agrees-- it _is_ fun, and he knows Niall feels that assent in their drift.

_Already leaving spoken words behind?_ Niall ponders in their shared consciousness, and even his brain sounds Irish.

_We’re fast learners,_ Harry thinks.

The neural handshake strengthens, and they both look forward, movements synced.

_No rabbits, okay?_

_No rabbits._

Summoned, the memories flood in. 

Niall’s history comes in flashes of emotion and image: a jolly-looking man behind a meat counter in a brightly-lit grocery store with an accompanying rush of affection, a series of classrooms, a series of Irish landscapes in the sun and rain, a first kiss with a girl, a first kiss with a boy and a rush of embarrassment, an awakening from surgery and a twinge in his knee-- an entire childhood and adolescence filtering into Harry’s memories, winding alongside them. It gives him a headache.

The memories move like a river, constant and churning, the details bypassed by the emotions strong and lingering. Niall doesn’t chase rabbits, but he does linger on one memory, a young man that looks like an older version of Niall, standing in a small but spotlessly clean kitchen, holding an infant. Must be Greg, Harry thinks, and he feels his heart sink alongside Niall’s as the memory moves past.

Siblings-- the heart sunken-- he pulls away from Niall’s memories and he feels Niall tense up, like he knows what’s coming, but he can’t-- he seems Gemma as she looked right before. She’d just dyed her hair a jaunty shade of lavender. 

_Don’t chase her,_ Niall says from somewhere faraway, _Harry, don’t chase._

When Harry looks over, it’s Gemma who looks back.

The floor shifts beneath him as the jaegar lurches forward. Both Styles siblings turn away from each other, looking through one pair of eyes out into the churning sea as the storm raged overhead. The kaiju, badly injured but still lurching forward, screeches a terrible noise that pierced through the noise of the storm. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the dull grey of its flesh, its seemingly endless teeth, protruding defensive spikes, and the gushing blue blood.

“No problem,” Gemma says aloud. “He’s done.” She likes to speak even when sharing the headspace, says it grounds her, helps her lead. He trusts her to lead strikes like this, knowing with her strategy and his combat skills, they are nearly unstoppable.

“Come on, Harry.” Niall’s voice filters in through the communicator built into his Pons helmet. “Come back now, that’s enough. That’s enough here. You don’t need to--”

“This is our last chance,” Harry mutters into his communicator.

“Focus!” Gemma snaps. Harry cuts off the communicator immediately, and Niall’s voice is gone, but it echoes in his mind-- don’t chase.

But then the kaiju is charging, its jaws open, moving faster than they’ve ever seen a kaiju move, parting the sea with its massive, bleeding bulk. Gemma reacts easily, and they shift their weight back defensively, raise their arms together to deflect the blow, but then--

The kaiju jumps. As if weightless. It hurls itself into the sky, its entire mass out of the water and above the jaeger, and with another terrible shriek it brings its weight down on the jaeger. The momentum of the jump drives its claws easily through the steel and through Gemma’s arm. He feels it. He feels pain and the wet warmth spreading. He feels afraid, and when he looks at Gemma, she is looking back, and she is afraid. She is holding her arm where it’s been removed from just above her elbow. Outside, the storm rages, and he can see it behind her where the kaiju cut through the steel.

The kaiju strikes again, ripping at the jaeger. Its aim is good, and jaeger splits into two parts.

She is afraid, and she is falling, and falling, and then she is cold, shocked, tossed in the waves, bleeding, terrified, terrified, terrified, and then gone.

The kaiju is still there.

Harry looks at the gaping hole in the jaeger. Niall is standing on the edge of the hole, teetering there in his drivesuit. “You already fought this one, Harry,” Niall says, balanced and steady on his feet despite the unsteady tilting of the jaeger and the storm gales. “You don’t have to do it again.”

Then Harry is on his knees, and Niall is next to him. “You don’t have to. Just let it go on, then. Once was enough, right?”

The neural handshake breaks, suddenly, and Harry is back on solid ground.

“Compatibility confirmed,” one of the techs mutters awkwardly in the tense silence.

The drivesuits click open, and Harry steps out and lands on his knees. His head pounds and his chest is tight, his lungs compressed like they don’t want to breathe anymore. He feels Niall’s concern before Niall is even out of his own drivesuit-- the residual effects of a drift, he supposes.

Then Niall is on the floor next to him, one hand on his back. “All right, mate?” Niall murmurs, and when Harry looks up Niall’s face is splotchy, and his eyes are rimmed red.

“Sorry,” Harry says immediately, guilt bubbling up. Was Niall crying? They were in the same headspace, and Harry was too wrapped up in his own memory to notice. “I knew it’d be -- hard, I guess but I thought-- I thought--”

“Course,” Niall says easily. “No apologies allowed.” He stands up, and offers his hand to Harry for the second time to pull him up.

There will be more tests later. Paul is gesturing furiously at one of the techs, and the others are casting pitying looks or carefully attempting to look very busy as Harry and Niall walk towards the door.

Liam pulls Harry aside and folds him into a tight hug. “It’ll get easier.”

“I know.”

“Good man.” Liam pats his cheek. Then, he turns to Niall, and pulls him into a hug as well. Niall squeaks, but returns the hug, his eyes widening over Liam’s shoulder at Harry.

“We’ll figure things out over a drink, yeah?” Liam says as he pulls away, and grips Niall’s shoulder. “Get some rest now.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Niall says with a nod, and leads Harry towards the door with a hand on the small of his back.

*

In the chill of their tiny bunk, they return immediately to their whiskey teacups. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says immediately, as the door closes behind them. He’d been practicing his apology in his head as they moved down through the hallways, trying to craft the most honest but least pathetic explanation possible. He couldn’t lie and say he hadn’t known it would happen, because he had-- he knew he wasn’t strong enough to let that memory slide by, not the first time drifting since it happened. “I should’ve warned you, I didn’t think--”

“Mate,” Niall says as he uncaps the whiskey, “I said no apologies allowed.” His voice is stern, but he’s smiling unsteadily. Niall hands him a half-full teacup.

Harry takes a sip, focusing on the burn of the liquor, letting the physical sensation pull him away from his thoughts.

“You didn’t need to warn me,” Niall continues as he pours his own drink. “I figured it might happen. Plus, you know, if we’re supposed to be co-pilots, we need to know this kind of stuff about each other, right?”

Harry sits down on the edge of his bed, and Niall sits beside him, bumping their thighs together. “I hope it helps,” Niall says.

“What?” Harry says, glancing up.

Niall scratches at the dark roots of his bleach-blond hair, and keeps his eyes cast towards the floor. “I mean, I know I’ll never-- understand, fully, you know? What you lost. But I lost my brother too, and I felt your memory, the whole thing. So, you don’t have to go at it alone. If you don’t want to.”

Harry tightens his grip on his teacup, and he wants to say something, but his throat is tight around a knot and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

Niall’s face is turning red. “I’m here if you’ll have me, I guess,” he says, and takes an embarrassed swig of his drink.

Harry clears his throat, once, twice, and blinks away a sheen of tears. “Thanks,” he says, quietly. “Really.” 

“Drink up, then,” Niall says, immediately brightening. “Liam said we needed to rest before debriefing.” He finishes his drink and sets the teacup aside, then collapses back onto the twin bed and pats the bed next to him. “Come on, then.”

Harry drains his own whiskey, then peers down at Niall.

“I know you, Harry Styles,” Niall says gravely. “We have drifted. Our brains are forever linked. And I know you are a cuddler.” He opens his arms.

And-- Niall’s right. So Harry sinks back onto the bed, lets Niall pull him against his chest, and falls asleep to the slow, steady beat of Niall’s heart.

*

They drift again, and if Harry chases the same rabbit, no one in the training facility has to know, because Niall pulls him out of it without breaking the handshake. And the third time, Niall traps himself in a hospital hovering over his brother’s unmoving body, and Harry stands next to him and inhales the antiseptic smell of bleached sheets and scrubbed floors, and then they leave that memory behind. And each time, when the handshake breaks Harry emerges from the drift thrumming with pride and adrenaline and something that feels hot in his veins, and if he can’t detangle his feelings from Niall’s, well, that’s between them, and they pointedly don’t discuss it. 

*

“Think you’re ready?” Zayn says, looking down his nose at Niall. They’re not technically supposed to be in the K-Science lab this late, and Zayn Malik is definitely not supposed to be here at all, but it’s as the Kaiju get stronger it’s getting harder and harder to peel Liam away from his research.

“No,” Niall says cheerfully. “We’ll never be ready.”

“That’s reassuring,” Louis mutters into his beer.

“I think it’s a good state of mind,” Liam says, not looking up from the microscope. “It’s dangerous to be overconfident when piloting a Jaegar. And it’s true, you’re never really ready. You just go for it.” He looks up and gapes at Zayn. “This brainstem tissue is in perfect condition, where did you even get this?”

Zayn grins. He doesn’t look like a black market kingpin, and he certainly doesn’t live up to the whispered rumors -- he’s quiet, sure, a bit intimidating, and wears a very nice watch, but Harry doesn’t get the sense that he’ll be stabbed at any moment. He just seems like a guy who’s good at his job. “Dunno,” Zayn says, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“You do, you cheeky bastard. Tell him about the your last scavenging adventure, then, the man deserves to know.”

“Scavenging? I do no such thing,” Zayn says, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Louis and Zayn start bickering about the legality of Zayn’s work while Liam falls silent, adjusting the knobs minutely on the microscope.

Niall elbows Harry gently. “”How about you? Feel ready?”

Harry’s leaning against a vacant desk, and he tilts his head back to peer at the unfinished ceiling. “Actually, I… I think so.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t feel ready to fight,” he clarifies quickly, his throat catching at just the thought of facing another Kaiju. “But I feel ready to take Crazy Mofo out.”

Niall slings an arm around Harry’s shoulder and tugs him into his side. “Me too, mate. You’ll love her.”

“Tell him it’s illegal,” Louis shouts at Liam, pointing a finger determinedly at Liam’s forehead.

“No more specimens if you do,” Zayn adds, puffing his chest out.

Liam gapes at the two of them, and then at Harry and Niall. “Don’t all of you have work to be doing, or something?”

“No,” Harry, Niall, and Louis say in unison. “Can I smoke in here?” Zayn says simultaneously.

“Oh my god,” Liam says morosely. “We are doomed.”

*

Niall is vibrating with excitement as the Drivesuit snaps into place around him. Harry can feel it even before the handshake initiates, and then once it does, his own nervous anticipation is flooded with Niall’s lightweight thrill. It takes the edge off.

_This is going to be sick,_ Niall says in the Drift, and Harry can feel his grin, and can’t stop himself from matching it.

The bay doors open, and they move as one. Crazy Mofo steps into the churning sea, standing solid and immovable as the waves crash against its legs. At Paul’s instruction, they do a few combat maneuvers, testing weaponry and parrying invisible attacks, and Harry doesn’t think about his last battle-- he thinks about sparring, his hands and wrists wrapped tight, and Niall, standing above him, offering a hand to help him up.

*  
At three in the morning, Harry wakes up. In the other twin bed, Niall is snuffling and moaning, low in his chest, turning over and over like he can’t get comfortable. He’s not loud, but the room is small.

“Niall?” Harry raises up onto his elbows, squinting at the darkness. “You awake?”

Niall doesn’t answer, but the tossing continues.

Harry plants his feet on the floor, then leans forward across the gap between their beds to touch Niall’s hand where it clenches his sheets.

“Hey, wake up. It’s just a dream.” He squeezes Niall’s hand, and raises his voice. “Niall, wake up.”

That does it, and Niall wakes up with a gasp like he’s breaking through the surface of the sea.

“You were just dreaming,” Harry says, quiet again, and rubs his thumb across the back of Niall’s hand. “Seemed like a pretty bad one.”

“Oh,” Niall says, and exhales long and slow. As Harry’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see the sweat beading on Niall’s temples. “Oh… did I wake you?” Niall’s brow furrows.

“Hey.” Harry stands up and steps across the gap between their beds. “Budge up.”

Niall’s face softens, and he scoots over in his tiny twin bed and lifts the covers. Harry sinks in next to him and wraps an arm around him, pulling him into his chest and tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Niall’s neck. It feels-- right, to do this, to soothe Niall in this way. He knows it’s not what co-pilot usually do, unless they’re the married type, but it was almost an unconscious choice. He knew what Niall needed, and he can feel the tension breaking like they’re still in the drift. “What’d you dream about?”

“Nothing, really,” Niall says immediately, and Harry tugs at his hair.

“Just--” Niall continues, and tips his forehead against Harry’s chest. “Battles, you know. I mean, it all worked out okay in the end, but when I first started piloting with Greg, we-- we weren’t prepared, you know? We had to go out because there was no one else. But we didn’t have the, uh, the skillset I have now. And there was a lot of collateral damage.” Niall inhales deeply and exhales, and his breath is warm against Harry’s thin cotton tee. “A lot of collateral damage.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Jesus.”

“Not a real big fleet in Ireland. Lots of losses through the years.”

Harry runs his hand down Niall’s spine, feeling the shaking subside. “You all right, though?”

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Yeah. It sucks, the dreams always suck-- I know you know that. S’all right, though.”

“We did damn good today,” Harry says, tilting his head down to mutter the words into the crown of Niall’s head. “We’re good. We’re really good.”

Niall nods, and his hair tickles Harry’s nose. “You scared to go out? When there’s an attack?”

When, Harry thinks. “Yeah,” Harry says. “But also not.”

“Hm,” Niall says. “Me too, I think.”

Niall curls closer against him and wraps his arms around Harry’s torso. “Harry,” he says, his lips moving against the hollow of Harry’s throat, sending a warm thrill down Harry’s spine. “In the drift, do you--”

“Hm?”

Niall pulls back suddenly, so he can look at Harry’s face. Harry misses the press of his lips on his throat immediately.

“I like this,” Niall says. "Feels, uh," he's blushing now, Harry can't see it but he can tell by the question in his voice. "Safe, you know? And when we drift, you know, I feel it. Between us?"

Harry thinks he knows what Niall's talking about-- he knows when they drift Niall feels every surge of fierce affection and pride, every rush of adrenaline and gratitude that he found, somehow, a copilot this good, he knows his memories include long looks at Niall's broad shoulders when he changes. "Niall, I--" 

Niall surges forward and kisses him, his hands fisted in the Harry’s shirt. It’s a firm kiss, but not invasive, just his lips against Harry’s and a sharp inhale.

“Is this--” Niall pulls back, his fingers releasing their grip and hovering awkwardly.

Harry grabs Niall’s face with both hands and kisses him again. Niall melts against him, his hands flattening against Harry’s back and running up and down like he can’t touch him enough. Harry hums into the kiss, his tongue running over Niall’s lower lip, and tugs Niall closer with a hand on his hip.

“Yes,” Harry says, pulling away just enough to say it. “Yes, to this, and yes, in the drift. I feel it, all the time. I thought, uh, thought it was just me.”

Niall barks a laugh, loud and sudden, muffled into the curve of Harry’s neck. “How could it be just you if we were drifting?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know, I don’t understand how it works! I just do it. I let Liam do the science.”

Niall kisses him again, his mouth still curved up into a grin, and Harry can feel the laughter bubbling in his chest but it’s not his laughter, it’s Niall’s laugher, Niall’s warmth, Niall’s disbelief. He mutters Niall’s name into the kiss but doesn’t break away, and Niall says “yes, now too, I feel it now too.”

Harry flips them suddenly, and Niall’s little jolt of surprise runs through him. “This is weird,” he says, his knees bracketing Niall’s hips as he leans down to kiss the soft skin under Niall’s jaw.

Niall hums and runs his hands down Harry’s back then beneath the hem of his shirt. His touch is warm and firm and callused, and Harry arches into the touch. “Just means we’re compatiable,” Niall says, and Harry murmurs assent. “Like, very compatible,” Niall continues, his breath hitching as Harry’s tongue drags down his neck to the hollow of his throat. “Harder to-- to break the handshake than it is to start it.”

Harry pulls the neckline of Niall’s shirt down and sucks a mark on his shoulder where it’s easily hidden. “Will it always be like this?”

“Dunno,” Niall says, and combs his fingers through Harry’s hair.

Maybe he imagines it, but he swears he hears Niall’s voice like they’re drifting.

_I hope so._

*

Two weeks later, radar spots a Category 5 kaiju.

The bay is a warzone itself. Paul shouts orders at techs, pointing at things and grimacing, while Liam and Louis hone in on the radar to find any weak points on the kaiju. Zayn is underground somewhere safe, Louis confirmed after a very frantic and snappy phone conversation that led to many raised eyebrows from Liam.

“You ready for this?” Harry says over the noise.

Niall looks up as the Pons helmet snaps closed over his head. “Nope,” he says, with a grin. “You?”

“Nope,” Harry says, and flashes him a thumbs up.

The handshake initiates, and they slip into the drift as easily as taking a deep breath. And Harry realizes-- he anticipates, but he doesn't fear, the kaiju barreling towards them from the depths of the sea. Niall is there, like an anchor, and he loves him fiercely, and in the drift he doesn’t need to say it out loud.


End file.
